All Roads Lead To Rome And Tring
by Anonymous Plume
Summary: Two men, 2,000 years apart, were individually walking through a field one day, when something fuckin' weird happened. And that's how Sherlock met Jon. Or, whatever his awkward, Roman, mouthful of a name is.


A hot sun beat down on Jon's neck and he dragged a filthy rag across it's tanned surface. At his hip, an empty skin of water bumped with every step. As the soldier panted, he touched it now and again, desperate for its full weight and the promise of moisture. He had been walking in this heat, under a punishing sun, with no significant amount of water for nearly four days. Dusty, sandalled feet faltered on a stone, and Jon threw a hand down to steady himself. Weak, he let his body collapse onto the hot, cracked earth in a heap to rest. His mouth was as parched as the desert. His skin was as dry as an old scroll. A trembling hand raised to wipe at a brow that longer perspired; his body had expended every available drop.

If he did not find a stream soon, he was not much longer for this world.

A bitter grimace twisted his face. He'd outlived his brothers, endured torture, to get vital information to his general only to die in the wilds of gods only knew where. Had he had any tears to spare he would weep.

A hot wind burned at his skin, and Jon shrugged away his heavy thoughts, groaning back to his feet. He settled his gaze at the vast emptiness before him, wondering how far he would get, when a bird, a raven, cawed above. Jon's eyes snapped towards the sound. The creature cawed again, as if purposefully at Jon, and hope flashed in his heart.

'_Please, please let this be help from the gods.'_

The bird landed, twitching it's beady gaze at him. Jon cautiously stepped towards the animal and stretched a shaky hand towards it. The raven appeared unconcerned and pecked at a pebble. Jon swallowed.

"Hello," he offered. He smirked at the vision he would present should someone happen upon him. Talking to a bird in the middle of nowhere. Depending on the outcome, he'd either be Rome's biggest ass or most favoured son.

The bird hopped a few paces back and cawed again; Jon stopped. The raven then jumped and flew in a circle, only to drop back down a few paces on. Jon cocked his head... and then blinked. The bird was now... shimmering. Jon rubbed his eyes and blinked again. Yes. There, just a few feet ahead, the raven sat in what appeared to be a mirage. Mirages Jon knew; they were frequently seen at long distances during a march, but they always faded the closer one got. Or, more like, stayed just as far away. The bird's dark outline shifted at the edges, blurring into the surrounding landscape, and Jon inhaled. His mother always said that the gods worked in mysterious ways, and this certainly was mysterious. Therefore, it had to be a sign and Jon, given his current predicament, was desperate for a sign.

He nodded once and took a deep breath. "Very well."

His dusty feet marched forward and the thrill of the unknown lit a fire in his veins as it always had. As Jon neared the spot that continued to shimmer, the bird called out and abruptly flew away. A feeling of... pressure, of something pressing in around Jon's skin grew, and his heart beat horridly against his chest. As he stepped fully into the strange shimmers, the world suddenly dipped and turned, and Jon cried out as the feeling of solid earth disappeared. His last thought was that that he did not have any coins for the ferryman.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was having an absolute hell of a day. No, really. If Lestrade didn't find someone actually capable in forensics before they all died of old age, it would be a goddamn miracle. Anderson had finally chipped away at the last of Sherlock's limited reserves, until he threw down the blood-spattered book he'd been analysing, stormed off the premises and into the field behind the victim's home. A field. A fucking <em>field<em>. Sherlock had been in approximately two fields in his entire life, and this was one of them. Fuck Anderson. Just fuck him to hell and back.

With a vicious snarl, he shook a cigarette loose from his last remaining pack, and lit it with unholy speed. Half of it was inhaled in one drag. Calm. He needed to remain calm, then devise a way to quietly kill Anderson so that no one would suspect him, and then life would continue as best it could. There was no other way. Sherlock inhaled another drag and nodded with satisfaction. Yes. He'd go back, get a cab, go home, and promptly begin creating a poison to neutralise the problem. There. The day was getting better already.

He then tripped and fell into something moist, foul, cold, and definitely not mud in the middle of the godforsaken _fucking_ FIELD.

"_Really?!_" he screeched at nothing. He sighed and hazarded a glance at his suit. Ruined. Yeah, no it was completely ruined. There was no amount of dry-cleaning services in the world that could save this. He'd just bought it last week, too. A fucking Spencer Hart. Goddamnit.

"Ugghh," something groaned..

Sherlock spun on his knees, wincing when the disgusting sound of whatever he was lying in squelched. He looked up and his wrathful expression cleared immediately.

"Ow," the something said again, rising up to brace himself on bare elbows and forearms.

Apparently, Sherlock had marched into a field and tripped over a Roman soldier. A huff of disbelieving laughter bubbled out and he squinted.

"Uh," he began, "my apologies. I didn't see you lying hidden in a wheat field in the middle of Tring."

The man froze and slowly turned dark blue eyes on him in shock. Interesting. The... soldier, sprang to his feet and gaped at Sherlock. Sherlock took a moment to scan his silver-blue eyes from the dirty sandals at his roughened feet, noted the muscled calves that disappeared under a leather, fringed, well, skirt thing. They glanced over the sword and leather scabbard, an animal hide waterskin, the soiled linen tunic that was probably once white, a heavy scarlet cloak that hung below a tanned, rather attractive face with blue eyes and golden blond hair and okay enough of that.

"Who in the world are _you_," he breathed. Oh, he had several ideas, and each was the least likely as the next. Utterly fascinating.

The man exhaled once, and then reached a tanned forearm out, offering a hand. Sherlock took it, noting the calluses, as he was raised to his feet. Skilled swordsman, possibly even trained in archery. He would need to feel his fingers again.

"Was there a re-enactment nearby? If the rest of the company is as well-kitted out as you, it must be quite a sight to see. Someone did their research thoroughly."

The man blinked and seemed to finally look at Sherlock. His confusion grew as he took in the now-ruined suit that Sherlock shifted in uncomfortably. He touched the fabric of his jacket, then touched it again. His lips quirked.

"Soft," he murmured. He stood back to get an overall generallook and cocked his head. "Where do you come from? I have never seen such adornment." Deep blue eyes met his, and he squared his jaw. "And your Roman is impeccable."

Sherlock, as surprised as he'd ever been, snorted again. "My Roman? Do you mean my English?" His eyes narrowed. "Did you hit your head?" His eyes flicked to assess potential abrasions or lumps. The man was obviously befuddled.

The man's mouth formed '_English_' silently and he crossed his arms. "I am not familiar with this word." His postured shifted from bemused to alert and a sun-darkened hand strayed to the scabbard at his waist. "Are you Macedonian? Have you been sent to spy?"

Sherlock fought the grin that refused to go away and his eyes widened. "You're amazing. Head injury or drugs? This is a fascinating hallucination and you have no idea." The man's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. Sherlock shook his head and extended a pale hand. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

The man eyed it for a moment before slowly taking it in a very firm grip. "I am Iohhanes Wencelaus." Sherlock's faced scrunched up, and the man smiled. "You may call me Jon."

"Ah. Thank god."

Jon smirked.

Sherlock clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "Well, Jon, what brings you to this field?"

At this, Jon started and his eyes scanned their surroundings with crooked brows. "I... fell... here."

Sherlock's face betrayed nothing. "Hm. That's as good as any reason I need." He took a step towards his new, befuddled friend, and lay a hand upon his shoulder. The man jerked in surprise and whipped around to stare at him. Sherlock removed his hand. "Sorry." He cleared his throat, just as he heard raised voices calling his name from near the victim's home.

"Listen, I do hate to be presumptuous, but do you have anywhere to go?" Jon looked to the ground and bit his lips. "I thought not," Sherlock continued, gently steering Jon towards the direction of the crime scene. "I feel just awful about the uh, tripping incident. Why don't you come stay with me until we figure out who you are, yes?"

Jon nodded and then shuddered to a stop at the edge of the property, where lights from the panda cars were flashing, and cops were milling about in their horrid fluorescent yellow windbreakers. His mouth worked and he pointed ahead. "What... how... is that blue fire?"

Sherlock's ever-present grin grew twice as large until his cheeks ached. This was delightful.

As they neared the road, Lestrade caught sight of him and stomped over.

"Sherlock, where the _hell_ did you get off to, and ju-" he paused. His weary eyes tracked over Jon from toe to tip. He sighed and his entire body sagged in defeat. "Why and how."

Sherlock stood closer to Jon and wrapped long fingers around Jon's forearm. "I found him he's mine and we're going back to London. I'll be in touch."

And with that, Sherlock flagged a cab that would take them back to the local station and on to London. Watching and cataloguing every single one of Jon's several reactions to everything they encountered along the way was better than an 8, and he rather thought, ruined suit aside, the day had turned out quite brilliantly.

"This is the shower." Sherlock kicked open the door to the toilet and gestured beyond.

Jon's jaw had been steadily hanging open from the moment they left the crime scene and had not seen fit to close. Sherlock was like a kid at Christmas. He was going to find out what Jon had taken and he might even try some for himself. Honestly. Brilliant. A worthy puzzle indeed.

He continued. "You're welcome to use anything you find in there."

Jon took a hesitant step further in. "Use?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. To bathe."

Jon turned around, eyes wide. "You bathe in here?" His eyes darted to the tiled walls and he seemed to relax a bit. "Where do you get water? Is there a servant you call?"

Sherlock bit his tongue and squeezed past Jon. "No servants necessary." He wrenched the faucet and water sprayed forth. Jon jumped back.

"Ingenious," the soldier murmured, creeping forward. He let his fingers pass through the spray and pulled them back immediately with a smile. "It is already warm!" Curious, he balled up his fist and rapped on the tile walls. "It is in the walls? How?"

Sherlock crossed his arms and leaned back against the sink. "Incredible." Jon turned a pleased, but questioning glance to Sherlock. "Indoor plumbing. It's fairly popular here."

Jon's fingers played about the spray again. "Remarkable."

Sherlock watched him, giddy with intrigue and pleased to note that his fascination with this man continued to grow. His eyes tracked the muscles shifting beneath his muddied tunic, up the graceful line of his broad, golden shoulders. Perhaps most surprisingly of all was the low curl of heat that had built up, just a little, in his abdomen at the sight of the man. And during a _case_ of all times. When Jon raised his hands to unfasten the clip at his shoulder, it was his turn for his mouth to gape at the newly bared torso. Good god. The man was like a Greek statue. Or, perhaps a Roman statue. He licked his lips, and Jon began working the leather skirt/belt thing off his hips.

"Right," he squeaked, and winced, "I'll just leave you to it." A heavy thunk of leather and metal hit the floor, and a warm hand wrapped around his bicep before he could escape. Sherlock turned and was met with the site of a very naked, very, very attractively fit Jon before him. He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut and that low simmer of heat quickly ratcheted up to a sizeable flame.

Jon's eyes bore into his and he held his arm gently. "I do not know you, but I am already indebted to you. You have my thanks."

Sherlock's jaw worked silently before words happened. "You're welcome."

Jon smiled and turned back toward the shower to step in. But not before Sherlock caught a glimpse of equally tanned, perfectly rounded twin globes of arse. He dashed out of the loo and closed the door, leaning against it to catch his breath. He wasn't some stupid adolescent, for god's sake. It's just, it had been a while since he'd had a man over, naked, in his shower. Naked and wet. In the shower. Naked and wet, and delusional with muscles, and eyes, and hair that gleamed like spun gold and Christ. Tea. He needed tea. Yes. Right. Tea.

When Jon was wrapped in Sherlock's blue dressing gown, sleeves rolled up, and hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. Meanwhile, Sherlock sat opposite, also freshly showered, his own mug abandoned, and stared. Jon, who displayed an innocence that would normally irritate Sherlock, smiled and shook his head, pointing at several objects around the room.

"Why do you have a human skull in your home?"

Sherlock quirked a grin and shrugged. "An old friend." Jon's brows rose. "Well, I say '_friend_.'"

Jon chuckled. "You are a strange man, Sherlock Holmes." He took a sip of his tea and sighed with content. "Strange but kind."

Sherlock's heart gave a weird flutter. "You may be the only person on the face of the planet to think so."

With his eyes still closed, inhaling the fragrant steam between his hands, Jon shook his head. "Then you do not know the right people."

"Perhaps." Sherlock leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "What is the last thing you remember from before the field, Jon?"

Jon sipped again at the hot drink and stared out into the distance. "I had been on a reconnaissance mission with my brothers."

"Military."

"Yes. Rome's Western border has been under attack, sporadically, for the past year. We've launched a major retaliatory campaign that has taken us out of Rome's protection. My _numeri_ was being followed. There was a group of Macedonians that had been trailing us for days, and we were certain they were relaying our movements. We were to find out their numbers and location, and report back before taking them."

Sherlock's eyes merely widened a fraction at the detail of the delusion, but he gestured for his new friend to go on.

Jon sighed and looked away. "We were caught. I alone escaped." He swallowed. "We were held for a day and I am ashamed to say that I was lost. I'm not certain where they took us, but we were already in unfamiliar land and I had no idea where I was. For four days I wandered." Jon rubbed the back of his neck with a wince.

"I managed to take a waterskin from their camp, but it ran out quickly. Had it not been for the raven I think I would have perished, perhaps the following day if the sun held up."

Sherlock sat up. "A raven?"

Jon smiled. "Yes. The gods sent a raven to show me the mirage."

"A mirage. Can you describe this a bit more fully?"

Jon squinted and set his tea aside. "It is as I say. It was as if a mirage was just before me. A raven had caught my attention, calling to me, just as I was on the verge of giving up." He squirmed in his chair. "I was very near my limit, but I was called to. And, it was either lay down and die or see what the bird wanted," he grinned and shrugged. "Then I noticed that it shimmered and appeared as if in a mirage. Only, the closer I got, the mirage stayed."

Jon leaned back in the armchair and met Sherlock's gaze. "And then the creature yapped at me until I stepped in, the horizon pitched, and I lost consciousness until a handsome, pale Englishman kicked me in a field." The soldier smirked and winked.

Sherlock's belly swooped and he valiantly ignored the bit about being handsome. Because Jon thought he was handsome. "You say the horizon dipped?"

Jon nodded, sipping his tea. "Yes. I felt dizzy, as if I'd been spun in many circles and could not tell which direction was up or down. Until I woke up in your field."

"Fascinating." Sherlock's brows crinkled and he couldn't stop himself from asking, merely so they were on the same page, really. "Jon, what year is it?"

The fair-headed Roman stared at him.

"Let me rephrase the question. Who is your Emperor? Or, general?"

Jon's confusion cleared. "We are fighting our third Macedonian war under the consul Lucius Aemilius Paullus. We are nearing victory," he added with a glint in his eye.

Sherlock stared at Jon. "Third Macedonian War. Jon, that was over..." he paused. Ancient history. He felt like he may have deleted this. "One moment." He picked up his laptop, quickly typed in a google search annnd, "2100 years ago. Jon. If, let's say you're not in fact delusional," Jon squawked at this, "you have skipped ahead to the year 2014 and are in London. Which is the capital of the United Kingdom."

Jon blinked at him.

"You're in Brittainy. Very north. And you're 2100 years in the future." Sherlock set his laptop aside and sunk back into his own armchair. "You've missed a lot."

Jon slowly looked around at the items in Sherlock's sitting room. At the glowing box he'd set on the floor that told him the date, at the lights that shone from the ceiling, he was no doubt remembering the steaming water that shot from the walls in the loo.

"By the gods," he whispered, and reached a shaky hand for his tea. "This is... unbelievable."

"To say the least. I may also need to look into quantum physics for an hour or two." His previous theories, though actually logical, simply were not lining up. Jon was actively defying logic. And once all other avenues had been explored, and the impossible, etc, etc... And that's still assuming he wasn't high as a kite. Speaking of.

"Jon, may I check something?" Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock smoothly rose from his seat and glided towards Jon before dropping to his knees. Jon tensed but met Sherlock's determined gaze with a nod. Sherlock's eyes skimmed over Jon, from the exposed skin on his chest beneath the robe, which he nudged aside to better view the scarring at this shoulder. His eyes followed the line of his neck to his jaw, examined the cut of his hair, the pursing of his lips, and the decidedly not dilated pupils.

"Unbelievable," he breathed, mere inches from Jon's lips.

The soldier's Adam's apple bobbed. "What is?"

Sherlock inhaled. "You come from a land with a Mediterranean climate, though your parentage somewhere reveals ancestry from the north, given your blond hair, a non-dominate trait on the Italian peninsula. Your feet and hands, the weathering and tanning of the skin on your body suggests a life outdoors, a rugged life, congruent with that of a soldier. You have a familiarity with weapons, a calm confidence that comes with handling such items, and your instincts, even while you are relaxed, suggest one used to being constantly alert for dangers, an awareness that shows years worth of habit again suggesting military. Your eyes, mouth, and the veins along your arms do not suggest any sort of habitual or recreational drug use and the fact that you're perfectly lucid tells me you're not currently drugged by anything unusual, if indeed at all. You've no family to speak of, are potentially addicted to dangerous situations, and you believe every single word that has come out of your mouth."

Sherlock inhaled again. "In a word, you are, impossible."

Jon's lips were open in an 'o' and his eyes, half-lidded, stared into Sherlock's until he twitched. "Amazing."

Sherlock flinched. Wait. What? "Beg pardon?"

"You... you are _amazing_. Brilliant." Jon's smile pulled at the crinkles near his eyes and he leaned forward. "How did you do that?"

Sherlock flashed a shy smile. "You really think so?"

"You are blessed by the gods, Sherlock Holmes."

"Please, just Sherlock."

Jon shook his head in wonder, and leaned forward again. "Truly. Incredible."

Sherlock could feel the breath from Jon's words roll across his lips and he licked them hoping for a taste. Oh, how he wanted - call a spade a spade. No one had ever said his deductions were amazing, brilliant, incredible. He leaned forward, eyes glued to Jon's lips.

"You really are impossible, Jon."

The soldier grinned and Sherlock felt warm fingers skating up his arms, pulling him close. Sherlock closed his eyes, yes, this moment was good, and fine, and one or both of them may actually be crazy but if it meant that fascinating, wonderful Jon wanted to kiss him then who was he to turn him down?

Lips, so soft, brushed his and Sherlock clamped his fingers over the tops of Jon's strong thighs, and leaned in, wanting that delicious pressure -

"Oh my."

Sherlock's hackles rose instantly and he jerked back with a snarl. "_You!_" His heart was beating erratically, and twin forces of lust and irritation caused his vision to temporarily swim. "Are _not_ welcome here."

In the space of a heartbeat, Jon was on his feet, the sword he'd lain by his chair was raised, and Mycroft was backed into a wall with an angry Roman soldier's arm at his throat, and tip of a blade at his gut.

"Friend of yours?" Jon growled, shoving his arm further into the older man's throat.

Sherlock was hit by a bolt of lust so strongly he thought he'd pass out. He managed to gurgle, "No. Brother."

Mycroft gasped as Jon's forearm dug in deeper, and the tip of the blade sliced into the fabric of his jacket. Jon shot Sherlock a questioning look. "A brother who is an enemy is the worst sort. I suggest you leave immediately or you will have me to answer to."

Sherlock whimpered on the floor.

Jon pulled back but gripped his sword tightly. Sherlock wanted to lick him. His ankle. His wrist. His, jesus, _everything_. No one had ever bested Mycroft. He _ruined_ that Westwood jacket. Oh, Mycroft was going to be _incandescent_ with rage. Jon was _perfect_!

Mycroft's eyes were as wide as Sherlock had ever seen, as the man straightened his collar, and pulled at his jacket. His brows creased with, oh god, that was very obviously anger, Sherlock's cock twitched, as Mycroft fingered the slice in his jacket.

"Well, Sherlock, this is colourful even for you."

Jon raised his blade, and Sherlock lunged for Jon's legs, pressing his face against Jon's knee.

"No, Jon! Don't kill him. Yet. He's leaving right now." He couldn't help it. He snuck his tongue out and licked just behind Jon's knee. The soldier's leg twitched, but he lowered the blade.

"Sherlock-"

"I know."

"How in the-"

"_Later_."

"I expect-"

"GET. OUT."

At this, Mycroft rolled his eyes and scoffed, but turned elegantly on his heels and closed the door behind him.

The second the sound of his footsteps carried down the stairs, Sherlock was tugging Jon down on top of him.

"You. Me. Please. I need it."

Jon smiled and laughed, situating himself comfortably on top of Sherlock while being manhandled from below, shaking his head. "What was that about?"

"That was the sexiest thing that has ever happened." Sherlock grabbed Jon's face between his hands and crashed his lips against the soldier's. "No one," he smacked, "has _ever_ caught," he ran his tongue along Jon's lower lip, "him unawares," Sherlock sucked that lip into his mouth, and Jon groaned, "you _SLICED_ his Westwood!"

Jon thrust a very prominent erection into the soft flesh of Sherlock's belly, and Sherlock whimpered and thrusted up to meet him. "Perhaps this is," he panted as Jon continued kissing Sherlock's lips in sweet pecks that lingered, "indelicate, but, do you-"

"_Yes_," he growled. Jon's fingers gripped Sherlock's hips and pulled his pelvis into his. Sherlock's mouth fell open and his head dropped back to the floor with a thud. "You are strange, and kind, and brilliant, and formed by Aphrodite's own hands, I'd swear." Jon bit at Sherlock's jaw and thrust again. He kissed and nuzzled back to Sherlock's mouth and paused. "And if what you say is true, you have accepted me without complaint, and, I find myself... humbled. And warmed."

Sherlock's throat closed up with something vaguely emotional even as his skin was zinging with sensation. "Well. Good."

Jon dipped down to kiss lips that were plumping under his attention and slid his tongue inside to stroke against Sherlock's. He opened his mouth wider and oh god, Jon's erection was rubbing against his own, and if only Sherlock's trousers and pants were off they'd be naked - oh. Sherlock shuddered as the thought that Jon was already bare except for the dressing gown hit.

As if reading this thoughts, Jon's fingers began plucking at buttons. Jon pulled back to lick and suck at the soft flesh of Sherlock's throat. "May I take you to bed?"

"You may take anything you want," he breathed, latching on to Jon's lips with his and wrapping long arms about his neck. Jon smiled against his mouth, slid his hands under Sherlock's back and lifted him off the floor.

Sherlock cried out in surprise, instinctively wrapping his legs around Jon's slim hips. Jon had lifted him as if he were nothing. All those days spent training in a Roman legion had seriously paid off, god, Sherlock was drunk with lust. He was going to fuck a, potentially, real Roman solider. Every one of his closely hidden military kinks were being checked. He squirmed in Jon's strong arms, and lightly chewed on his neck.

When Sherlock was spread out on his bed, he arched and stretched, flashing his best '_come hither'_ eyes, and Jon licked his lips, staring down.

"You are making quite the spectacle of yourself." Sherlock slowly smirked. "And while those tightly tailored clothes look very pretty on your form, I need them off immediately."

Sherlock's fingers drifted down to his buttons and began flicking them. He wiggled his hips, rubbing his trapped erection against the confines of his trousers. "And why is that?"

Jon slid across the bed and crawled over Sherlock's body, pausing with his mouth at his ear. "Because I plan to do very lewd things to the places between your legs."

Sherlock juddered and surged up, shirt only half-unbuttoned and moaned when Jon's tongue thrust into his mouth, and his cock rubbed gloriously against his. Jon's hands pulled at Sherlock's shirt, lifting the tails out of the trousers and tugged. He managed to slide that off, but fumbled with the trouser button. He pulled back, brows furrowed. "How do these-"

"I'll just, here." Sherlock quickly had them opened and was in the process of shimmying them down his thighs, when Jon's lips trailed over his chin, and his tongue dipped into the hollow of this throat, and Sherlock forgot how to move. Jon's teeth nibbled and pulled at his nipples, and his hands smoothed over his waist and thighs. Jon mouthed at Sherlock's ribs and sighed into his skin.

"I've never been so comfortable with another man," he mumbled, working his mouth lower.

Sherlock, writhing under Jon's ministrations, hummed in question.

Jon bit at his hip bone and rested his chin there after. "It is always very secretive. Between men. Never in another's home," his grin was shy, and he rubbed his chin back and forth.

Sherlock's eyes softened as he watched the other man. He trailed his fingers through Jon's close-cropped hair. "It isn't like that anymore, you know." Jon arched a brow. "Men. With other men. Sodomy isn't really a crime." His lips thinned. "Well. Not in Britain. Not in many places. Here, you can marry them and everything," he smirked.

Jon's mouth dropped again. "Really?" His breath huffed out in a rush and he smiled against Sherlock's stomach. "Amazing."

A flush spread down to Sherlock's chest, and he was filled with such warmth from the wonder of Jon's words, and his touch. He was ready to haul Jon back up to his lips, when a tentative tongue swiped across the tip of his cock where it peeked out from beneath his pants, and Sherlock gasped. Jon's tongue swiped again, and Sherlock jerked before raising up to watch.

Jon smiled coyly up at him. "You like this?"

Sherlock nodded frantically. "Any man who says they don't is a liar."

Jon huffed a laugh and then wrapped those smiling lips around the head of Sherlock's cock and sucked. Just enough to tease, but not enough to make him see stars.

"Jon,"Sherlock whispered, falling back onto the pillows. His empty fingers gripped the sheets in bunches. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths as the heat surrounding his cock slid lower and lower while Jon removed his pants to take him in deep.

"Oh, god," he groaned. He clenched his eyes shut and focused on the slide of Jon's tongue under the head, the insides of his velvet-y soft cheeks when he sucked and pulled. "That's wonderful, ohhh."

Jon took him until his nose was buried in the thatch of hair at the base of his cock and swallowed. Sherlock's hips jerked and his hands flew to Jon's hair, gripping until Jon hummed appreciatively, and Sherlock took the hint and pulled. As Jon slid so, so slowly back up, he groaned, making Sherlock's prick swell even further from the added vibration.

"_You_," Sherlock swallowed around a dry throat, "you did this a-a lot, I take it?"

Jon slid off and mouthed the tip. "Boredom gets the best of everyone at some point," he winked. Sherlock tried to chuckle but it morphed into a kind of mewl when Jon tongued his frenulum and sucked him back into his hot, wet mouth.

Sherlock thrashed and tried to ignore how quickly his orgasm was building using distraction. Periodic table, rates of decomposition of fingers, congealed pools of blood the dating of which is significantly impacted by temperature and CHRIST - he bit his lip with a particularly strong suck pulled the air out of his very chest through his dick and he was being sucked off by a _Roman solider!_ He couldn't stop the sudden laughter from escaping.

Said soldier, who had been happily sucking and moaning around his cock, paused at the sound. "Mm?"

Sherlock groaned and his balls tightened - too quick. Oh no, no, no.

He reached down for Jon's hair and tugged and pulled until Jon got the hint and raised up from between his thighs.

"Please, it's, it's very good. Too good. I don't want... well, if you wanted to..."

Jon smiled and slid up Sherlock's body, settling his thighs on either side of his hips. He lowered down onto his forearms bracing Sherlock's head and nuzzled his nose with his. "I understand." He kissed his lips once, twice. Sherlock panted and slid his fingers into Jon's hair, bringing his kisses back and sliding a tongue into Jon's mouth.

The soldier groaned and slid his own fingers into Sherlock's curls and gripped. Sherlock quivered beneath him and arched his chest up.

Jon kissed down his jaw, suckled under his ear and whispered with hot breath. "I want to flip you over and take you until that mind of yours goes silent." Sherlock felt his heart stop. Jon kissed his ear, slid his hands down the column of Sherlock's throat, palmed his left nipple. "Can we do that? Can I take you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say yes, yes GOD YES, but he choked and ended up nodding instead. Jon smiled into his lips with a grateful kiss. "Good."

Jon kissed down Sherlock's throat and traced gentle fingers over his ribs and pushed until Sherlock rolled onto his stomach. Sherlock's heart was pounding and for a moment he couldn't see Jon and he panicked thinking surely this wasn't real and the man had left, but then reassuring hands slid up his back and into his hair.

"Shh, I've got you. Relax."

Sherlock melted into the mattress and parted his legs so that Jon could better settle between them. Strong hands soothed down the dip of his back, up and over the curve of his arse, and down his thighs. His fingers traced back up the insides of his thighs, glancing over the crease between leg and groin, and Sherlock bit a pillow, raising his arse higher like some wanton whore. Lips followed fingertips, and Jon kissed the top of one cheek, then dragged a tongue into the pool in the small of his back, settling his cock right into the crease of his arse and pressing. Jon laid along the length of Sherlock's back, sliding his hands up his sides and his arms, until their fingers clasped near Sherlock's head.

"Do you have oil?" Jon murmured, setting up a slow grinding rhythm against his arse.

Sherlock exhaled and pressed back into him, mind in a fog. "Mm? Oil?" Jon scraped his teeth over the top of his should and thrust hard into his bum. "Ohhh, mmm, Jon.. oil? Oh, no." He smiled into his pillow. "I've something better. Top drawer." He gestured towards his nightstand and Jon kissed between his shoulder blades before crawling away. Sherlock heard the rustle of the duvet, the slide of a drawer, and then a long pause before the drawer slid shut. Jon shuffled back, and laid a hand on Sherlock's lower back

"Forgive me, but, is this what you meant?"

Sherlock turned back, eyes glazed with lust, to look over his shoulder. Jon was holding his bottle of lubricant in one hand, and a condom in the other, and frowning.

"Yes. Problem?"

Jon blinked down at him, tense and hesitant, until Sherlock's brain kicked back online.

"Oh! You're asking how to use it. Right." He smiled a little crazily and sat up. "Open the cap like this," he demonstrated, and then took the condom from Jon and opened it. He lowered his hand and his gaze to Jon's flushed erection. His mouth watered. Wow. Well that was... quite, quite impressive... and thick. And gorgeous. He blinked and looked back at the condom in his hand. It would probably be fine.

He leaned forward to kiss at Jon's collarbones and lowered his hands to Jon's cock. "This is what we use for protection, and it goes on like this," he whispered into Jon's skin. As soon as his fingers rolled the condom onto the head of his cock, Jon sighed and slid his arms around Sherlock's back, resting his cheek atop his head.

Sherlock smiled, and pumped his fist up and down Jon's length, revelling in the sighs and sounds Jon made against his curls. Jon's hips thrust up to meet his hand in tiny little snaps until he pulled away with a growl and spun Sherlock around, pressing his face back into the pillows with his left hand.

"You are a tease."

Sherlock's cock throbbed in response and he lifted his arse once more. "Then you'd better do something about it."

Jon chuckled darkly, and Sherlock heard the snap of the cap click open. "Oh, believe me, you cocky Englishman, I will."

Cold fingers were suddenly at Sherlock's entrance and he jerked in surprise.

"Should I have warmed that for you?" Jon asked with feigned innocence. Sherlock bit his wrist and closed his eyes.

Thick fingers, gentle fingers despite Jon's teasing, circled and pressed, teasing sensitive skin that hadn't been touched by another in years. Sherlock gasped and pressed back, eager to feel more.

One fingertip breeched first and carefully slid back and forth until Sherlock was pushing back to take it deeper.

"Easy," Jon said, stilling his hips with a firm hand. "You are so very tight. When was the last time?"

Sherlock grunted instead and pushed back again. Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time. It wasn't important. Not like the - _ohhh_...

"Jon, yesss, please. More," he moaned. Jon slid in a second finger along with the first, and smoothed his free hand along Sherlock's back. His skin prickled in the wake of his touch, and he arched up into it without thought.

Jon sighed and pressed a kiss to his arse. "You aren't touched often, are you?" he murmured, slowing his fingers' retreat.

"No," Sherlock answered. His eyes slipped shut again and he sighed at the feel of his opening burning with the stretch. "It hasn't been, or, it's not something I indulge in. The wo-ork is more... oh god there. That spot! Again, please!"

Jon huffed and rubbed his fingers over his prostate lightly, then firmly.

"More, Jon. I can take it."

"Can you?"

"Yes!"

Jon bit his arse, hard, and Sherlock yelped. A tongue soothed over the pain, and a third finger was slowly introduced. Sherlock widened his thighs and breathed out. God, the man had fingers of gold, and when he scissored open his fingers Sherlock exhaled long and hard. Sweat broke out along his hairline and he mashed his face into the mattress, meeting Jon's thrusts with his hips. Fuck, it had been too long. His cock was leaking steadily onto the sheets and felt harder than he could ever recall. If Jon didn't hurry soon this would be over before he could even get inside. He voiced this quickly.

"We can't have that," Jon said. He removed his fingers and pressed one more kiss to the curve where arse met back, and settled between his thighs.

"Yes, yes, I'm ready, please. Now." He gripped the headboard and braced for the feeling of Jon's cock brushing against his entrance. "Now, Jon. Do it."

A firm hand smacked his backside and Sherlock yelped. His cock got even harder and he whined until the blunt head slowly pushed inside.

"You're an eager thing, aren't you?" Jon gasped. He was so patient, so gentle, but Sherlock could feel him shaking with restraint.

Slowly, Jon entered, pressing deeper until they were both a shaking mess. When Jon was fully seated he breathed out and bent down to lay against Sherlock's back once more, letting Sherlock get used to the feel of him. His lips smeared kisses into his shoulders, and hands slid up and down his sides. His thighs pressed Sherlock's open and were a searing heat against his skin and Sherlock was otherwise oblivious to everything else. He was so full of this impossible man against him, and all he wanted was feel him sliding in and out and taking and giving pleasure. He wiggled against him.

"It's okay. Move."

Jon smiled and thrust in carefully, barely circling his hips until Sherlock was groaning.

"Please, Jon. _Please_, I can't-"

"Shh, it's okay if you can't. It's fine."

Sherlock growled and thrust up, startling a gasp from Jon. "When I say move, you - _oh_ OH yes!"

Jon pulled out and thrust deep, sliding Sherlock up the bed, once, twice.

"You're in quite a spot," he grunted, "to be giving me orders, _Sherlock_."

"I- ohhhh, gooood that's it," Sherlock babbled. His hips met each of Jon's now-punishing thrusts, and his cock rubbed against the sheets, desperate for friction. His orgasm was building and building and it would take hitting his prostate only once, he knew. "So close, m'sorry, I ca-an't oh yesssss."

Jon sped up his thrusts, lifting off Sherlock's back, hands supporting him on either side of Sherlock's waist. He panted with every snap of his hips. "Look at you," he breathed, "gods you're _beautiful_, unh, so good."

He slid his hands under Sherlock's pelvis and pulled until his hips were raised, and then plunged back in and Sherlock positively screamed as Jon hit his prostate. His body lit up and pulled taught. His palms were now flat against the headboard, and he pushed back, hard, while Jon continued pushing and pushing. Christ, when had sex ever felt this good before?

"I'm gon' oh, Jon, I can't, pleasepleaseplease!"

Jon reached around and took Sherlock's neglected cock in hand and pulled, jerking him in time with his thrusts, and Sherlock inhaled, mouth falling open and groaned. His balls pulled tight, and oh god, this was, oh ffffuck yesss, he was coming, oh god how he was coming. His cock pulsed in Jon's firm grip and spilled over his fingers, onto his chest. His arse clenched around Jon and he moaned at the feeling until Jon shoved into Sherlock and held, and Sherlock felt Jon's cock pulse within his body and shuddered.

Jon collapsed on top of him, slightly angled off, and breathed ragged breaths against the back of his neck. Meanwhile, Sherlock was fairly certain he'd melted and was no longer classified as 'solid.'

"Mmpf," he mumbled. He managed to lick the drool off his lip. That was probably not attractive.

Jon continued panting and gathered Sherlock closer in his arms. He was still buried, balls deep within Sherlock, who clenched earning a surprised grunt from Jon.

Jon kissed his shoulder and ran his hands along the mess on Sherlock's belly and pressed him close. "You are louder than any Roman I've ever heard."

Sherlock's lips pulled back in a smile and he rubbed lazy hands along Jon's forearms.

"I take that as a compliment."

Jon giggled an endearingly high-pitched thing against his neck. "You'd have made a fierce orator in the Senate, I fear."

Sherlock shivered. "Politics. Not my area."

"Mmm." He kissed along Sherlock's neck and jaw, until Sherlock turned and met his mouth with his own. Their tongues tangled slowly, little nips and kisses growing deeper and more filthy, until Sherlock turned in his arms and crawled atop Jon, angling his mouth to fit more closely.

"What shall I do with you, Jon?" he whispered into his lips.

"That is the question, I'm afraid."

"Mmm." The kiss tapered off until Sherlock nuzzled his head under Jon's jaw, and Jon wrapped strong arms round his back.

After a moment, he broke their silence with, "You are _alarmingly_ thin."

Sherlock shrugged.

Jon's fingers began feeling out each of his ribs. "Can you not afford to eat?"

"Eating is boring. It slows me down."

"That's absurd." Jon pulled back to give him a look of incredulity. "Everyone must eat or _that_ will slow them down."

Sherlock shrugged again and settled back under Jon's jaw. "Perhaps I can be persuaded later. If you're interested in engaging in activities," he circled his hips low across Jon's, "that require lots of energy."

Jon giggled again and kissed Sherlock's temple. "At that I can. But can we rest first? I will be dead on my feet otherwise."

Sherlock reached down to draw the mangled covers over them. "Sleeping is also boring. But I suppose, just this once, I'll make an exception."

They settled under the duvet, legs tangling, each trying to work out how best they fit together until they found the perfect arrangement and sighed out their content. Sherlock's head lay upon Jon's well-defined chest, and Jon rested a palm at his waist, and one in his hair. Soon, Jon's breathing evened out in slumber, and Sherlock listened to the sound of this impossible soldier's heart and followed him to sleep.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was researching in bed, while beside him his soldier slept on. Well, <em>the<em> soldier. Not _his_ soldier. The man didn't belong to Sherlock. He darted a look over towards the mound of blankets softly snoring against his thigh. He may not even belong in this century. A twinge in his chest throbbed at the thought, though he couldn't tell if the reaction were disappointment or elation. He turned back to his browser and continued devouring everything he could about wormholes and theoretical quantum physics.

An hour later, remarkably, still found Sherlock abed, when the Roman stirred and yawned with a stretch. The sheet covering his chest slid down while the man flexed muscles, and Sherlock's eyes couldn't help but take in the sight that greeted him. Jon rubbed his sleepy eyes and then flopped over to throw a sleep-warm arm around his hips.

"Careful," Sherlock said. Jon had knocked against his laptop instead.

The soldier paused, then jolted in surprise. He sat up and the sheet covering his remaining modesty slid completely away. The man did not appear to be bothered, however, and bent closer to stare at the laptop with wide eyes.

"It glows." He squinted. "Are those... words?" Sherlock scrolled and Jon jumped again. Sherlock grinned.

"It's called a laptop, and it's connected to the majority of all available information on the planet. Well, known information."

Jon's eyes grew even wider. "Everything you could know is in that glowing box?"

Sherlock nodded, charmed beside himself.

"How?"

Sherlock inhaled and stretched. "Oh Jon, we could be here all day. Take my word for it today, and we'll revisit the conversation another time."

Jon pouted, but nodded and snuggled further. "I am hungry." His stomach rumbled in emphasis.

Sherlock set the laptop aside and considered his anomalous friend. "What do you eat?"

Jon snorted. "Food."

"Yes, but you won't be accustomed to cuisine here. Perhaps a simple chicken, some bread and cheese? I can have Mrs Hudson pop down to the market."

Jon smiled and slid down to nuzzle at Sherlock's bare hip. "That sounds wonderful. I haven't had cheese in months."

Sherlock tentatively ran a hand through Jon's hair. "How long were you away from home?"

"The legion _is_ my home. I've been a soldier since my seventeenth year. What good is keeping a house if you're never there?"

Sherlock made a considering sound and then rolled atop Jon with a smirk, settling his parted thighs over the soldiers hips. "So, no family, no home, I suppose if I kept you here you wouldn't be missed?" He angled the statement into a hopeful question, already knowing the answer.

Jon slid his hands up Sherlock's thighs but frowned. "When you present it thusly it makes me sound rather pathetic," he deadpanned.

"I didn't mean it that way, I meant it more as in you're free of obligations. Yes?"

Jon looked away in thought. "I have obligations to my men. To Rome."

Sherlock ran a finger down the dip in Jon's chest. "And if you cannot return..."

Jon bit his lip and kneaded Sherlock's quads. "Have I a choice?"

"I doubt it. My research, as unbelievable as it may sound, which trust me is exceedingly exciting, Jon, the implications in your appearance alone could mean-" he stopped at Jon's expression. "I mean, if what I suspect has happened, then, it is virtually impossible to return you back to your own time. I could get you to your approximate location back home, but they will be as advanced as we are here."

Jon lay still for several moments. "What, precisely, happened to me?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to his laptop. "I believe, given your circumstances, the visual and physical data you provided about your so-called 'mirage' that you stepped into something theoretical physicists call, a wormhole."

"A what?"

"It's a, sort of rip, or portal, in time, that has the capacity to send an object, or person, to anywhere in any time."

"Time."

"Yes."

"This is something the gods control? Was I not being... punished?" He smirked. "Or, possibly rewarded?" he sent a heated glance to Sherlock's groin, which had been half-erect the whole time he'd rolled onto Jon.

"Gods do not exist."

Jon's eyes widened and he shushed his friend. "Quiet! You do not want to risk their wrath!" He shook his head in reproach. "Idiot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Suit yourself. We do not believe in the your gods nowadays, but each to his own." Sherlock leaned forward, eyes intent on Jon's. "Jon, you have inadvertently stumbled through Time and ended up in a location several thousand years ahead of your timeline. From the life you were born to. This is the most exciting thing that has possibly ever happened."

"Does that make me special?"

Sherlock cocked his head and studied Jon's blond lashes, the stubble lightly dusting his jaw, the curve of muscle lining his shoulders, the tongue that slid out to lick Jon's lips. "I would say of all the words one could use to describe you, 'special' is indeed one of them."

Jon's lips curved in a slow smile and he slid his palms over Sherlock's ribs, pressing him close. Sherlock leaned into him and, almost bashful now, pressed his lips to the soldier's in a soft kiss. Jon hummed into the kiss and Sherlock ran long fingers up his neck, into his hair. A thumb brushed over a tanned cheekbone and he settled further into Jon. Beneath his stomach, he could feel Jon harden at his touches, and he squirmed aside to slot his own thickening cock beside Jon's.

Jon hissed at the touch, and pressed Sherlock's face closer to his, snaking his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and grinding his hips up. Sherlock gasped at the slide of cock against cock and rutted against Jon. Sweat began to slick their heated bodies and Sherlock reached down to grasp Jon's hips, pulling him ever tighter.

"Sherlock," Jon whispered and pressed his face into the neck above him, thrusting wildly.

Sherlock moaned, scrabbling to get closer, needing more.

"Here," Jon murmured, sliding a hand between their bellies. Sherlock stilled, anticipation coiling deep in his abdomen, and when Jon's hand wrapped around their lengths he sighed his satisfaction into the solider's mouth.

They moved together, fucking the tight circle of Jon's hand, faster and faster, until Jon grunted and thrust sharply, spilling over their fingers. Using the extra lubrication, Sherlock slid his cock through Jon's fingers, biting at the soldier's neck and whimpering as his orgasm coiled and burned.

"Come on, Sherlock. Fuck my fist, that's it," Jon reached his free hand around to squeeze Sherlock's arse and the feeling of hot breath in his ear had him finally cresting and he came with a cry in Jon's hand, adding his ejaculate to the mess between their bodies.

He shivered as he came down, and Jon dropped gentle kisses along his brow.

"Mmm," the solder hummed, eyes closed. "I am torn."

Panting into his shoulder, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Jon. "About?"

"I am ravenous with hunger but do not want you to get off of me." He squeezed the detective close. "I like the way you feel," he grinned, kissing the juncture between shoulder and neck. His tongue slipped out. "I like the way you taste, too. Perhaps I should eat _you_." Sherlock whimpered at the visual that presented and fought the urge to roll over and present.

"Though, the promise of cheese is too great. There are many things I would abandon for good cheese." Jon rolled over to lie atop Sherlock with a cheeky grin.

Sherlock glared. "Are you saying, after saving your ungrateful hide from the bumbling idiots at the Met, and then offering my home, and my bed, _fucking_ your brains out, thank you, you'd pass me over for a wedge of _cheese_?"

Jon laughed until he shook the bed and rested back on his thighs, smiling fondly down at his lover. "Our brains are still intact, as far as I'm aware, but I also believe _I_ am the one who fucked yours." He winked again and Sherlock scoffed.

He twisted out from under Jon, and reached for his dressing gown. "Fine. If you prefer _food_ to company, I'll see what I can manage."

Hands slid around Sherlock's waist, and a solid warmth pressed against his back. "A better solution would be to bring it bad to bed where I can eat it off you."

Sherlock shivered. "Jon. Eating cheese off a person is not romantic. It's disgusting."

Jon laughed into his shoulder blades.

"There are much better things you can lick off me if you're that interested, though."

Jon spun Sherlock around and pulled him down into a kiss. "Oh, I am. But supper first, please. Then dessert." His stomach growled again and Jon stuck out his lower lip in a pathetic attempt to appeal to Sherlock's mercy.

"Oh, fine. I suppose I can't have you die on me."

They left the bedroom, and Jon followed him down the hall into the kitchen. "I _was_ wandering, alone, without provisions for nearly four days. The fact that I'm still standing is a miracle... what is that?"

In their haste to get to the bedroom earlier, Jon had not had the time to explore the kitchen, nor its accompanying equipment.

Sherlock smiled fondly and reached into the cupboard for two mugs. "Oh, Jon. Today, I am going to teach you something very special."

Jon turned rapt eyes to his friend and waited.

"This," Sherlock said, "is a modern kettle. And this," he flipped a switch, "is how you make tea."

After Sherlock had fed and watered Jon, they settled into the sitting room, where Sherlock proceeded to ask Jon dozens and dozens of questions related to Jon's life, ancient Roman life, and other things Jon didn't possibly understand could matter. Sherlock explained, quite proudly, about his created profession, and the sort of work he did. In return, Jon would interrupt his questions with questions of his own, and each were charmed, bewildered, and awe-struck at the cultures of the other.

"We'll need to get you some clothes," Sherlock said while passing a critical eye over Jon, who was clad in a different dressing gown that night. "Mycroft can handle your identity."

"Who?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "My brother."

"The man from earlier?" Sherlock nodded. Jon bit his lip. "So, you are on speaking terms with him?"

"Of a sort. Though, I try to avoid it if possible."

Jon nodded. "Has he wronged you? Should I be wary of him?"

Sherlock looked up. Jon's expression was hard and his lips were thinned. Sherlock smiled that increasingly fond smile that Jon seemed to coax out of him. "_Always_ be wary of Mycroft. Though, he'll hardly put a dagger in my back, so there's no need to worry about physical confrontations." He added, "Mostly."

Jon accepted this, and set his mug down to cross the room and settle next to Sherlock. Sherlock's fingers paused in their flight above the keyboard.

"Sherlock, you realise that I am a guest at your mercy. I have no idea how to live in your world, and, I... well, I'm very grateful to you. For your hospitality."

A surge of affection warmed through Sherlock's chest and he swallowed. "Of course. It's... no problem." He smirked. "I'm sure we can find mutually beneficial ways to work out any lingering guilt you may have."

Jon smiled and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. It was so achingly sweet. Sherlock could not recall any previous lover, all of whom were extremely short-termed, who had ever done such a thing. Then again, none of them had ever thought him brilliant, in a good way, either.

"I promise to unburden you as soon as I am able. And I will pay back your generosity."

"What, no!" Sherlock yelped before thinking.

"No?"

"I mean," Sherlock fidgeted with the laptop. "You're no burden. And, there's no rush." He looked up. "In fact, I'm actually looking for a flatmate." There. Perfect! This solved everything. He truly _had_ been looking for a flatmate, but, shy of a man falling from the sky, none could ever stand for more than a few days. Perhaps there was something to fate after all.

Jon blushed and looked at his lap. It was incredibly endearing.

"Flat mate?" He bit his lower lip in thought. "I do not understand the 'flat' part, but I find that I like you very much, Sherlock. Though, we've only met, it feels as if we are kindred spirits."

Sherlock's ears burned and he felt certain that his cheeks were annoyingly pink.

"You are looking for a mate, and you say that men being with other men, is legal in your country." He huffed a laugh and smirked. "You certainly move quickly."

Oh. _OH_.

Sherlock stammered. "I, no, that's not what I meant, well, I mean, of a sort," he babbled. Jon had completely caught him unawares. He hadn't meant to offer himself as a... mate. _Mate_-mate.

"Jon, a flatmate is a term used as a, well, a flat is a home. A dwelling. Apartment. I'm looking for someone to share my home with. Split the rent..."

A deeper blush stole over Jon's face and he quickly nodded. "Ah! I see. I apologise-"

"No, it was a colloquialism, I didn't think-"

"Of course you would not offer something so intimate-"

"Not that the offer isn't appealing, I'm intensely flattered-"

"- in time perhaps we could explore...but, I would like to stay."

"- and could possibly even be somewhat interested..."

"Here. With you."

"...you would?"

The two men froze and looked at each other, twin hearts thumping, until Jon laughed and pulled Sherlock's face to his in a sweet kiss. "Yes, of course. You madman."

Sherlock sighed with relief and moved in close to Jon's side. They sat together, tension melting, letting what was normally a very awkward conversation just, sort of, fade away.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke again. "Not that I _would_ reject such an idea in the long run, though." His muscles tensed awaiting Jon's reaction. That was possibly a very foolish thing to say. He should have let it go. The man had just dropped out of the sky from 2100 years ago for fuck's sake. _Timing_, Sherlock.

Jon kissed his temple. "Good. I wouldn't either. Given time." He pulled Sherlock until he had him curled up in his lap, legs wrapped around Jon. It was... so very, surprisingly _nice_. To cuddle. With this relative stranger.

"Good." He cleared his throat. Slid his fingers through Jon's. "So. That's settled then?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Okay."

"Shhh."

And yeah. So that was how Sherlock Holmes met his very best friend Iohhanes 'Jon' Wencelausius...us. They were definitely going to change his name, though.


End file.
